


The Brightness in the Sky

by Dragonsigma, HypotheticalWoman



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Books, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonsigma/pseuds/Dragonsigma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HypotheticalWoman/pseuds/HypotheticalWoman
Summary: Cala seduces Beshelar by reading from his favorite adventure novels.





	The Brightness in the Sky

 

The days, now, were becoming routine - shift change, sleep, breakfast, training and study, lunch - then free time which might contain more training, then another meal and shift change again. Cala and Beshelar did not always spend their free time together but today here they were, in their shared quarters, Beshelar finishing his daily reports and Cala lying on his back on his bunk with a book. It was clearly not one of the huge leather books he used for study - it was small and bound in plain mustard-coloured pasteboard - but he apparently was finding it intriguing.

Usually Beshelar would not pry - but soon he had finished his reports, and with a lack of any other distraction, the question lingered in his mind as the silence gradually ceased to be companionable and began to become oppressive.

"What is it," he finally asked, "that you are finding so interesting?"

Cala glanced up from the page, and really, from the set of his ears and the mischievous light in his eyes, Beshelar really ought to have known better.

“Well, we’re not much of an orator, but let's see…” Cala cleared his throat. “‘Her breath was hot on his throat and he moaned into the snowy drift of her hair, pushing her reluctantly, yet forcefully away from him. “No, Veselo,” he growled, “Your honour is at stake.” Flushed by the heady influence of the poison, she reached for him-’” Cala paused and looked over the top of the book at Beshelar. “Shall we go on?”

Beshelar was certain his ears were red, even as he tried to hide that reaction with a scowl. "What... You... this is unprofessional."

Cala shrugged. “We are allowed to read unprofessional things in our free time.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Do you want to hear more?”

"Of course not!" This was absurd. Certainly Cala had better things to do with his time than indulge in that sort of... material. The look he levelled at Beshelar, however, stated that the maza knew precisely what his friend was thinking and, also, where he could stick his opinion.

“Well, you only had to _say_ ,” he said. A pause. Then, “Is there anything else you would ask of us?”

"Go back to your reading." Beshelar said, and tried not to grumble audibly. Cala shrugged as best he could while lying on his back and went back to reading, and soon the room settled into silence again. Beshelar decided that now would be an ideal time to polish his boots, so he got to work and studiously ignored his colleague.

In theory, ignoring Cala was easy. He was only reading to himself and he was not one of those irritating half-illiterates who mumbled to themselves as they read. In practice, though, he was _infuriatingly_ noticeable.

The first thing Beshelar noticed was the prickle of all the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright - highly trained as he was, he _always_ regarded a feeling that he was being watched - and he looked up sharply, just in time to see Cala turn back to his book. Then he happened to glance up while reaching across for the boot brush - Cala was not watching him, but he was smirking at something in the text, and then his eyes flicked towards Beshelar and hastily back to the page. Beshelar narrowed his eyes, noting that Cala’s lips were pressed together as if he were doing his level best not to laugh. While he finished polishing his boot he felt the prickle at the back of his neck again and resolutely did _not_ look up, until Cala made a noise like a gulp and Beshelar stared indignantly at him.

Cala didn’t even look around, he just ran a languid tongue over his lower lip and shifted the position of his hips slightly. Beshelar, watching him like a cat watches a sleeping dog, picked up the other boot.

It was clear what he was up to. Obviously teasing Beshelar was more fun than going off somewhere alone and reading his book there. In the months since they had been assigned to the Emperor's side Cala had learned how to tease and needle him to great effect - and though certainly unprofessional, it was only fair, considering his initial misjudgements of Cala's character. Certainly it was done with more affection than anything Guard cadets thought up, but thus far he hadn’t tried anything like this, in this... manner... with which he was altogether unfamiliar. He took the bait, though it was probably inadvisable.

"Truly, Cala, this is ridiculous." If Cala wished to... amuse himself in such a way, he could do it elsewhere. And that thought led quickly into wonderings of exactly what it was that Cala would do, once he was alone with the book that clearly fired him up so much, and Beshelar pulled himself away from those thoughts at once, and considered if maybe those were the sorts of thoughts Cala _intended_ to invoke?

“What is?” said Cala innocently, looking up as if he’d forgotten Beshelar was there. “Really, though, Beshelar, have you ever met-” he checked the front of the book quickly, “-Merrem Thasavo Lerenan before? We feel you must have done, or the fact that her hero resembles you so is such a coincidence as to be almost prophetic.”

The name was only vaguely familiar, but that was beside the point. "We had assumed it was to be inferred that the proceedings of such texts were entirely fictional."

“Oh, yes. But that's hardly the point. Listen!” Cala slipped a bookmark into the book and leafed through it to an earlier point. “‘Dach'osmer Theseta Asenar held himself as a man who knew the dance of swords almost as well as he knew how to walk. His poise was pristine, as was every part of him, as pale and perfect as a glacier, and Veselo felt suddenly like a butterfly caught on a pin under that sharp crystal gaze.’ Does that not sound like anybody you know?”

"That is far too many similes for one sentence," Beshelar muttered. "Though we suspect many of the lords His Serenity meets with would aspire to such a manner." He knew what Cala implied, and he would not be led in that direction. Crystal gaze- preposterous!

“Oh, it's standard for the genre,” replied Cala, waving his hand dismissively. Then he flipped through till he found another passage. “‘He fought as other men breathed, and as his opponent became all the more enraged, Asenar only became calmer and more focussed until Vesolo wondered that Therisiar was not struck down by the intensity of it.’ Merrem Lerenan has a touch for the poetic, we feel. Are you _sure_ you've never met her before?”

"We do not believe we have," he said. "Why do you persist in this questioning?" Poetic, for sure, though not very artistic, if he was to be the judge. This man seemed too perfect to be believed.

Cala glanced at Beshelar over the tops of his glasses. “If you want us to stop then you merely have to say so, and we will stop.” His ears pricked forward curiously. “Does the comparison bother you?”

"It is merely absurd. We are no dancer in a play."

“No. You're not.” Cala put the book down and swung his feet off the bunk so he could face his partner. “For one rather remarkable difference, you are right here in reality.”

He had not expected that sudden change in Cala's demeanor, and wondered what it signalled. "...We should hope so," he said. Just what did Cala intend to come of this?

Cala watched Beshelar’s face for a moment, searching for something - whatever he was looking for he apparently didn't find, because he simply shook his head and said, “We are sorry, we are making you uncomfortable.” Then, since his hair had come very loose throughout the day, he took it down and started to comb it out. It appeared the topic about romance books was over.

Beshelar had not been expected that - for Cala to simply back down from whatever game he was playing. He felt the absence of... something... and he was not entirely sure he had wanted it gone.

He waited a few moments, watching Cala work through his hair - fine, shaggy and flyaway, it hung to his shoulderblades in a silver-gilt fall that remained uneven and messy no matter what Cala did with it, and never held a braid for longer than three hours.

Beshelar realized he was staring and looked away. "...If you so greatly wish to discuss them, we would listen, though we are not sure what we could offer in the way of experience."

It was an awkward sentence. He did not think the books of any merit, but he also did not want Cala to think he was uninterested in conversation.

Cala braided up his hair and tied it off. “Oh, we were not expecting that you would.” He laughed. “Somehow we cannot imagine you would read pulp novels about star-crossed lovers. In fact we do not recall ever seeing you read anything other than dispatches. Do you ever read for pleasure, Beshelar?”

Beshelar’s first thought was of the adventure books his brother and friends had traded with him when they were children, but he had given those up a long time ago. And certainly he had never indulged in the erotic pamphlets his fellow soldiers passed around - at least, not more than a few times, out of curiosity. "We find little of interest in fictional tales, and little time to read histories."

“Ah.” Cala grinned and gave him a sidelong glance. “Oh well. We did think it would be enjoyable to read aloud to you sometimes, but if you have no interest in fictional tales we can see that it would bring you neither education nor pleasure.” Cala did seem so amused by this all, and Beshelar was struck with the desire to keep up this game, whatever it was.

"We admit we have not experienced a wide range of literature. If you believe you can find something suitable, by all means do so."

Cala's smile broadened. “We will do our best - we are sure we can find something you would like better than this.” He gestured to the book on his nightstand. “We admit it is chiefly the resemblance that amuses us, the author is rather given to cliches and purple prose. But the hero is so _very_ familiar.’ He looked Beshelar up and down. “He even has the same backside.”

"His... my… _what_?" Beshelar sputtered, caught off guard.

Cala just grinned. “We believe you heard us. Once again if we are making you uncomfortable you have only to say, and we will cease.”

That left little doubt as to the intent of Cala's teasing. But it might only be that, teasing, and nothing deeper... "We are beginning to question your interest in this particular book."

Cala shrugged. “It isn't our favourite, but then, they cannot all be so. But it is made better for the resemblance. Especially in the... later chapters.”

Beshelar stared at him, mouth opening and closing as he searched for a proper response, but it took only a few seconds for Cala to burst out laughing. “Oh, please, say _something_ , don’t just stand there looking like a fish! Should we tell His Serenity that we have had to place his First into the carp pond?”

Beshelar’s ears flattened, but they were on far more comfortable ground now - Cala found reasons to laugh at him every day. “We would still report for duty even if we were turned into a fish, and you know it, maza.”

Cala nodded. “Yes. We know. And it is our duty to prevent such a thing from happening. What a good team we make.”

Beshelar rolled his eyes and went back to polishing his boots.

 

~//~

 

That unusual conversation lingered in Beshelar's mind through the next day. He found himself more interested in Cala's remarks than he properly should be... but that was not a thing worthy of distraction. So he pushed it aside, and only took up the thought again when they found themselves in their quarters, Cala yet again entranced by another cheaply-bound novel.

He looked up as Beshelar entered and smiled. “Hello. How was training?”

"Nothing unusual to report. Have you been reading that all afternoon?"

Cala tilted the book up a bit so Beshelar could see the author and title, _The Brightness in the Sky, by Mer Csela Horenar_ , and the rather amateurish engraving of the airship on the blue paper cover. “Are you familiar with this series?”

It certainly didn't sound like the sort of thing Cala had been reading the previous day. "We have not heard of it."

“Oh, not in a long time,” said Cala. “And we have been reading now for only the past half-hour or so, while we were waiting for you. It's just as entertaining as we remembered, though. We know you said you did not read fiction, but still,” he shrugged and put the book down, “we thought maybe you might enjoy this. It has rather more battle scenes than _Dach'osmer Asenar and the Love Poison_.”

"Battles, on airships? That would require a great deal of strategy. Not to mention luck, and favorable conditions.”

“Oh, yes. But were it easy, it would not make for very interesting reading, now would it?” Cala grinned and stood up. “Now, was there anything you wished to do? Or will you sit, and allow us to read to you?”

Cala had not done anything in particular, he was not insisting - but his hand was on the door, implying that he would like very much if Beshelar would please close it, and join him. No pressure. Beshelar saw the invitation- it was hardly a surprise, it was only how Cala _was_ , even though by all rights they had little in common besides their position.

He shrugged. "We have no pressing duties at the moment,” he said, stepping into the room and allowing Cala to close the door behind him.

“Good.” There was a little stove with a water kettle in their quarters - it would seem like luxury for guards and mazei, but waiting for one's washbowl to unfreeze on a cold winter's morning was time that could be far better spent on one's studies and duties. So Cala set the kettle going to make tea, a cup for each of them. “The Great Avar told his Serenity that he must take time for himself, lest he become dulled - we think you might take the same advice to heart a little, maybe.”

It was not an unwise suggestion- health and rest were essential to good service. He watched Cala as he fussed with the kettle. "It is advice His Serenity needed to hear. What is this book you wished to share with us?"

“This is the first in the Brightsky Chronicles - there are twenty-seven so far, and we believe the author is still writing - about an airship captain and his crew of glider fliers, and their battles against, well, against anyone who cares to battle them, really. Mainly pirates, though.” Cala made the tea and set one mug beside Beshelar's bed. “For all the gods sakes, Beshelar, _sit down_. What must we do to make you relax?”

Beshelar sat, if a little petulantly, but he took the tea. It was a cold day, and the warmth was welcome. "Glider fliers?"

“Hm-hm.” Cala nodded, opened the book, and began to read. There were indeed glider fliers, a swarm of them, that apparently overcame many of the logistical dangers of airship battle - in fact much of the close-quarters battle seemed to be done by athletic men and women doing increasingly unlikely stunts in midair on their unfeasibly maneuverable gliders. Captain Veredar himself was, of course, gruff, clever, unorthodox and inclined to get into trouble at a moment's notice, but everybody in the cast who wasn't a villain was clearly charmed by him and some of the villains were obviously charmed as well. Cala strode up and down, animated, gesturing wildly as he read.

“‘Csirelin, to the fore! Fire the harpoons!’

‘But captain, we'll be brought down!’ protested Csirielin, one foot on the bar ready to go nonetheless.

Veredar rounded on her. ‘Just go, and trust me! You have been my first mate for nine years, do you think I'd fail you now?’

She stared into his eyes, saluted and screamed, ‘Let's go, men! Take 'em down with us!’ and the gliders poured over the bow…”

It was intriguing, yes, and carried with it the thrill of, if not actual fighting, of the tales told afterward by men eager for praise and a chance to show off their dramatics. Beshelar listened with the care of a man who was going to be examined on this subject later, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and a deep frown on his face.

"Surely they have complied plans for this? It seems an unnecessary risk..." But still, he was interested to see how it turned out (though, of course, it would be in victory, if his predictions of this type of writing were correct).

Cala stopped, brought up short and breathless. “What?” He frowned. “Well... we suppose so. They knew they were going into enemy territory, after all. But that isn't the point.” He hesitated, glanced down at the page - and couldn't quite look back up at Beshelar. “Is this... Are you not enjoying this?”

“They certainly have luck on their side, then. Continue, if you will..." He hadn't meant to disappoint Cala, only to point out that the airmen might have had better options than this all-out attack.

Cala took a mouthful of tea to cover his uncertainty, and carried on, although not quite with such gusto as before. “...over the bow. The captain watched them go for a second, two, then just as they began to split into two groups the harpoons fired down the middle, missing the last few by inches and entangling the mast and rigging of the pirates' ship. There was a lurch as the Brightness was tethered further, and then Veredar was over the bow and down the rope. He only hoped the hostages were still alive.”

Beshelar had heard stories like this before, embellished beyond all recognition and told with sweeping gestures and theatrical voices, and enjoyed needling the teller over the accuracy and realism of his tales.

"They are a courageous team, and I suspect these pirates are not so clever as they believe. Criminals never are." He was enjoying this, he realised, it only needed a jug of ale and a bowl of stew and he could be back in the Guard mess, listening to one of his fellows brag about their exploits on their latest assignments. "If they are so successful, one wonders what sorts would dare stand against them."

Cala brightened up again. “Well, obviously, only the bravest and most inventive sorts, obviously! We know any pirates’ days of success are surely numbered.” On that optimistic note, he dived back into the book. “No sooner was Veredar down the rope than the world was a clash of steel, and the crow's nest a very small place for a sword fight, certainly with a sword as long as his. There was no room! The pirate had a shorter cutlass, and the advantage, and pressed him back and back, and he stumbled off, into nothing, grabbing at the sail- _ah_ -”

Cala had gotten carried away again, book in one hand, mock-sword fighting with the other, and suddenly he turned on his heel, tripped, and stumbled backwards against the wall by Beshelar's bed.

"Mind yourself!" Beshelar stood abruptly and grabbed Cala's arm before he could fall. Cala’s other hand - the one not holding the book - smacked against the wall, then before Beshelar could react he turned, grabbed at his other shoulder and ungracefully climbed Beshelar back into an upright position.

“Apologies,” he said, smiling warmly. “We think we got carried away. Thank you for catching us.”

"Perhaps you should sit, if you tend to react so to these tales," Beshelar said dryly, letting go of his arm. Cala's recovery had involved possibly more contact than was strictly necessary, but it would be improper to suggest that, and spoil his roommate's warm gratitude.

“All right,” said Cala. He glanced down at the bed, and the small space between them. He hadn’t stepped back and if he moved his foot a little to one side he would have been standing on Beshelar’s toes. “Do you mind if we sit here?”

That was an unusual request, but Beshelar didn't see a reason to turn him away, and nodded approval. "What does Veredar do next?"

Cala did not touch Beshelar, nor did he approach his personal space any further - for all he was sitting close enough that Beshelar could feel the warmth of his body beside him. But he merely cleared his throat and continued reading.

“...Grabbing at the sail. _If this rips I am a dead man,_ he thought, but the sail did not rip and he slipped down, and at the bottom made a supreme effort, and reached out for the rigging racing up towards his face. He felt a wrench and wondered for a moment if both his arms had come free of their sockets, but he lived still, and was hanging to the rigging still many feet above the deck, and enough of the gliders had landed that the pirates were becoming distracted. Maybe now he could climb down without sustaining further attack.”

"He is very skilled, and his determination is admirable," Beshelar commented, trying to focus on the story rather than on how close Cala suddenly was.

“Nobody waited on the rigging but before a few steps were done it was clear that someone - a broad-shouldered goblin twice Veredar's size, with a cutlass in either hand and a mouth full of gold teeth - awaited him at the bottom like a suncat baiting his prey. Veredar's arms ached but he knew there was only one way to do this. He drew his sword and leapt.”

Beshelar was no longer thinking of how his comrades would tell the tale, but only listening to Cala- who managed to make the improbable events sound of immediate importance. "Facing their leader himself. A bold move, and the only proper one."

Cala paused, marked his place with his finger and turned his head to give Beshelar an odd little smile. “Why are you so sure this is the leader?”

"Is he not? We would suppose such a dramatic appearance would only suit the captain of a band of criminals. But you are right - assuming such is unwise during a fight."

Of course, Cala knew this tale already - and that put him in a position to tease and draw out the telling, as some old teachers were prone to do. Though Cala did it with more art than they, despite his material. “The goblin thug stumbled backwards, swords raised as Veredar was suddenly upon him, and one of the cutlasses went clattering across the deck, but he did not go down, and it merely meant he had a hand free now. He did not allow Veredar time to find his footing - the captain was hurled off and landed with a crash among a pile of barrels, desperately trying to shake off his dizziness and claw himself to his feet before the beast came for him again.” Cala read breathlessly, both hands on the book, still not touching Beshelar but leaning infinitesimally towards him, ears canted forwards in delighted tension. Beshelar was watching Cala as much as he was listening to the tale, both amused and strangely entranced by his rapt expression and the excitement in his voice. From what he'd said, he had read this story at least once before, and yet still found this joy in it, absurd as it was.

He read the battle scene with passionate verve, described the beauty of the hostage duchess and told of the escape from the pirate ship - over the side, with the Brightness Of The Sky slashed from its moorings and starting to float free - as excitedly as if he'd never read it before. By the time he was reading the close of the chapter, he had his head nearly resting on Beshelar's shoulder and the book cradled in his lap. “Veredar staggered up the beach, carrying the lady in his arms, then knelt and laid her down. ‘Dach'osmin - Dach'osmin, do you hear me?’ he called, horribly afraid that he had killed her in his rescue. There was a long, terrible silence, but just as Veredar thought that Dach'osmin Leralin would never open her eyes again she coughed and reached for him, and he could almost have wept from relief. His ship was gone, but they lived.”

"A successful mission. He did well." Beshelar commented when Cala paused, and once he'd said it he feared it would break Cala's focus, and the closeness that had arisen so slowly he had not thought to complain. Cala was nearly leaning against him now, and Beshelar wasn't entirely sure it was still the same teasing game it had been earlier.

“Yes.” Cala closed the book. “But the rest must wait, for we are becoming throatsore.” He stayed where he was, though, and if Beshelar cared to touch him he would barely have to move at all. “What did you think?”

"It is... hardly realistic, but there is something appealing in it." Or maybe the appeal was in watching Cala read it, but that was not stable ground and he would avoid it. To overstep and ruin this moment... that would not do. Nor would exploring these faint threads that could only distract him.

Cala smiled, inspecting Beshelar's face for a moment, but whatever he found there apparently satisfied him, and he simply smiled a little wider. “Appealing fantasies have their uses,” he said, then stood up and went to the stove again. “We must have more tea, would you like some too?”

Beshelar nodded. "Please," he said, still watching Cala, unsure of what that look had meant. "Are the other stories of this crew as extraordinary?" he asked, though that wasn't really what drew his attention.

“Oh, yes,” said Cala. “Often much more so. We thought we would start you off with this one not only because it's the first, but also because it's less outlandish than some of the later ones. _Veredar Dragon-Fighter_ is one of our favourites but we don't believe you would enjoy it.” He grinned impishly. “If it were at all realistic, Veredar and his entire ship would have exploded before the end of the first chapter and we know you'd point that out.”

“Fire-breathing creatures and airships do not sound a wise combination," agreed Beshelar. "But if you enjoy it, perhaps you would be willing to share. Or any of the others you think more sensible."

Cala's face lit up in a brilliant smile. “I would l- that is, we would be very pleased!” The idea of getting to give books to Beshelar was apparently delightful enough that Cala had to busy himself with tea making for a moment so that he could put his face in order, but his ears were still standing straight up when he handed Beshelar's mug to him.That delight fit Cala so well, so naturally. Most of the time Beshelar spent with him was during their shift, when such would be improper and where Cala affected a neutral expression, though often shifting into concern when His Serenity seemed particularly troubled or overworked.

"Which would you recommend?" he asked, wondering what it was exactly about the books that so thrilled Cala.

Cala settled down on Beshelar's bed beside him, considering the question. “Hmm, let us think... we believe you would enjoy _Murder on the Istandaartha_ best, but you would not properly understand parts of it without first reading _Brightness Falls_ and possibly _Veredar and the Cetho Guard_. Otherwise you simply wouldn't understand why Veredar now owes fealty to Barizhan, nor how he came to have experience as a member of the Cetho Night Watch.”

"This Veredar does not stay long in one place, it seems," Beshelar commented. He was very much aware when Cala returned to his seat next to him, his emotions still visible in the angle of his ears and the bright attentiveness in his eyes.

“No, he is a notorious wanderer,” replied Cala. “He breaks hearts wherever he goes, of course - and he's been dancing around Ranu Csirilen, his first mate, for most of the series. Sometimes we wonder if they will ever stop being silly and allow themselves to be happy together, but somehow we doubt it.”

"They did seem... close, from what little we heard. And surely they work together well, if they have won battles for so many books. Though would it not be a distraction, for him to love a lady who is supposed to serve beside him in battle?"

Cala gave Beshelar a long, considering look, and said, “Well, we don't know. Could _you_ do it, do you think?”

"We... certainly we have never commanded an airship crew..." And he knew that was not what Cala was asking, but this was so abrupt, Cala's manner turned from teasing to serious, and he had not truly expected that.

“That is true. Do you think it would be an undue distraction?” Cala's casual manner had started to drop away, much as he tried to hide it. He was watching Beshelar cautiously, as if walking on eggshells, wondering when he would hear the next crack.

"Such a thing could not be allowed to interfere with duty, or to dictate official decisions," he said, watching Cala pull away slightly, his previous lightness slipping away. He no longer knew whether he was speaking of Veredar or himself.

“Of course not,” replied Cala. “Duty comes before all else, naturally.”

Of course Cala realized that, Beshelar thought after hearing his answer, and it was an insult to think otherwise. They knew each other's dedication far too well for such doubts. "Do you think it would not be? A distraction, that is." He did not want Cala to move away, but if he had to, for the sake of propriety…

“For Captain Veredar and Min Csirilin? No. They know one another so well, at this point the fact that they are holding themselves back is more of a distraction. It drives a wedge between them. They could remove that wedge so easily, and become tactically so much stronger, were they to simply acknowledge what they feel” Cala shrugged. “If one is driven senseless by desire, the distraction will only come with relief.”

Beshelar wondered whether Cala was still speaking of Veredar, or of... someone else. He could only distantly imagine such distraction - surely he had never felt attraction so powerfully before. But he could see the truth in Cala's words, and considered that doubt could be more distracting than knowledge.

"There may be some merit to that. Knowing how your partner will think, or react, is a great advantage and a near necessity."

Cala chuckled despairingly. “Yes, we imagine so. Unfortunately in the real world, some people are as transparent as thick mud - or at least, if one knows how they will react it's often not how you _want_ them to react.”

There were only a few things Cala could mean by that, and one possibility seemed more and more likely. But there was no simple answer.  "True. Few things are as cleanly elegant as those tales, as much as one would wish."

Cala glanced over at Beshelar, clearly frustrated. “No,” he said. “Perhaps we should try to make our intentions clearer, even though it sacrifices elegance. Beshelar - am I not making it clear what it is I want? You have given me the merest hints of encouragement and precious little refusal. What do _you_ want?”

Beshelar did not know at first what to say - that had been so sudden, though it was very like Cala, the scholar, to try another tack when one failed. What _did_ he want, truly?  A closer understanding, to see that excitement and light in Cala's face more often - but what did that mean?

"We... I, that is - you seem to know more of this than I."

Cala's ears drooped. “Beshelar, I know only what _I_ want. Thou must know thine own mind.” But still, reaching out as though he expected Beshelar to shatter or at least bolt at his touch, he reached out and cupped Beshelar's cheek. “I want so many things, chiefly that thou dost not hate me for wanting them.”

The touch was unexpected but not at all strange, and he did not pull away. "I could not," he managed to say.

He ought to dislike it, ought to move away and speak no more of it - but it seemed only right and to do so would break their understanding, and more than that it would hurt both Cala and himself, and he could not do that. He reached up a hand, unsure of where to touch but feeling that he should. Relief and hope flooded Cala's face and he grabbed at Beshelar's hand with his free hand, smiling as though he might cry.

“Dost thou think that we know one another well enough that it wouldn't be distracting, maybe, were I to get what I wish?” he asked, pressing his lips to Beshelar's knuckles.

Beshelar found a bit of escaped hair and ran his fingers through it. "It... I believe your previous statement stands, that it might be better to do so than to not." And that seemed laughable after he said it, far too dry and rational. This might not be one of Cala's books, but it was more than strategy and logistics. He leaned forward slightly, hoping… and Cala closed the gap between them, only for a moment at first, and then again when Beshelar didn't pull away.

“Oh sweet gods,” he mumbled against Beshelar's lips and kissed him harder - then pulled back when he realised his glasses had been knocked crooked. He laughed, straightened them - and then took them off and put them on the nightstand. Beshelar chuckled in return and looked slightly stunned at the sound of his own laughter.

“It has been… some time since I kissed anyone,” he said apologetically, but Cala only looked down into his face with victorious blue eyes and said,

“I don’t care.”

 

~//~

 

Beshelar would never admit in front of his Guard comrades - or indeed anyone - that he enjoyed Cala's dramatic renditions of adventure tales. But he would tell that long before he admitted to the other sorts of novels Cala was fond of. The adventure stories were made of rather more flourish than art, or fact, or reason, but Veredar's highly unlikely crew were charming enough, and they were already halfway through the second book, _The Brainstormer_ , which probably took as many liberties with its telling of mazei and their art as it did everything else, but Beshelar was finding he didn’t mind so much. Besides, he liked seeing Cala's expressions as he became more and more engrossed in the telling. As for the others... in all good conscience he should have put a stop to it, he was too old to take a thrill in the forbidden - and yet thrill he did. And the sly smile Cala gave him as they stepped out of the Emperor's sight promised that today's tale would be one of those.

When he had eaten, gone through his drills and chores and the myriad other things he’d had to do before returning to their quarters, he found Cala sitting on his bed, reading, and found that he was right.

The book was, indeed, backed with a plain mustard-yellow binding with the title down the spine in austere black type, as if somehow trying to disguise what it was in a world which was well aware what books of that colour entailed. Cala was inspecting the illustration on the title page, which made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in artistic talent; and when Beshelar came in he looked over the edge of the book and gave what, in anyone who was not Cala, would have been a wicked smile. But Cala was not wicked, so it couldn't have been that kind of smile, could it? Beshelar saw that look, and he knew that look, and he knew what Cala had planned.

"Attempting to corrupt me further, maza?" He had not the skill at such talk that Cala did, but Cala could recognize his words for what they were.

“I have faith in thy pure heart, that thou canst weather such a tide and leave with no stain on thy soul,” replied Cala glibly. He stood up - and his legs still appeared to go on forever - and crossed the room to set the kettle going, pausing along the way to cup Beshelar's cheek in his hand and kiss him quickly. “In truth I’m a little put out that thou considerest me a corruption. Am I really so filthy to thee?”

"I only mean-" Beshelar began, then noted Cala’s quirked brow and dancing eyes, and relaxed. "It does not seem to me that thou wouldst so much enjoy being any other way."

Cala's smile broadened into a grin. “Well met. And correct, too. Sehalis Adremaza has chided me for it sometimes but never so severely, and I _am_ dachenmaza, aren’t I?” He prepared the mugs of tea as he spoke, waiting for the kettle to boil.

“Thou shouldst listen to thy teachers,” replied Beshelar, relieved Cala had taken his remarks in the spirit in which they were meant.

“I _do_ listen to my teachers. And one thing they say is that all men are fallible, even such as they.”

Beshelar made a sound between a snort and a laugh that showed exactly what he thought of that. “Well, we know now why there has never been a maza as Emperor.”

Cala did not argue the point, although what with the long hours he spent at his studies, Beshelar knew he could have flattened any debate in seconds. Instead he just set about making the tea. “And how has thy afternoon been since we changed shifts?”

"Uneventful," said Beshelar as Cala set out the tea, "which, in our positions, is a suitable state of affairs. Though I believe your Captain Veredar would think differently.”

“Well, Captain Veredar does like an adventurous life,” conceded Cala. “I believe even that first year of His Serenity's reign might have bored him greatly, although if he were here there might have been more extended swordfights.” He hesitated. “On the whole I’m glad there were not, and that we could dispose of the threats that there were quickly. But today I do not have a Veredar book for thee.” He handed Beshelar a mug. “If that’s what thou wert wishing for, apologies.”

Beshelar nodded. "So what is it thou hast prepared for this evening, if not Veredar and his stray maza? Seemst eager to tell me, earlier." He knew very well what Cala had planned, but this exchange was as much a part of the game as the books themselves.

Cala dropped onto his bed, leaning on the wall and extending his legs out in front of him. “It is called _To Charm A Soldier_ . I thought it was... suitable.' He looked up at Beshelar and quirked an eyebrow. “Wilt thou stay to attention, Lieutenant? Thou _art_ off duty, after all.”

Beshelar rolled his eyes. Cala _would_ delight in needling him so. "Thou wouldst make such a choice not to flatter me, I suspect. I will persist in noting the errors. I doubt the author knows anything of the life in truth." But he sat on his bed to listen, and to watch Cala's face and ears for that spark that prefaced... more personal things.

“Oh, certainly,” said Cala, taking a mouthful of tea and then very deliberately wiping his bottom lip with his thumb. Of course Beshelar’s eyes were drawn to his mouth like a nail to a magnet. “They seldom do. Now, let's see…” He opened the book and began to read. Certainly, like most books of its type, it had very little plot and the characters were two-dimensional at best - but that was not really what books of this type were for, and it got to the point very quickly. “Suddenly she was close - too close, and Piroma was far too aware of her porcelain pallor, the scent of violets in her hair and the blue-green depths of her eyes, burning with something he wasn't sure he could control without breaking his word. ‘I have heard many tales of mercenaries, Lieutenant,’ she whispered. ‘How many are true?’” Cala was watching Beshelar as he delivered the wayward Min Arnulin's line, and his voice dripped honey.

"Hired swordsmen are not to be trusted," Beshelar muttered, but he was scarlet to the ears. "She is certainly brave, or foolish, to approach him."

Cala rolled his eyes, but he'd been warned, and was obviously having an effect, so he continued. “‘Fewer than you would expect,’ replied the Lieutenant, adamant that he would not leave his post. ‘Min Arnulin, your father will be angry if he knows you were out here so late.’ Her eyes narrowed.” Cala's did the same.

“‘Then you need not tell him, and he will not know. ‘Tis only us two here, and _we_ will not tell.’ She smiled, and stepped closer, so that she was touching him, and he shivered. ‘I can see that you are indeed more honourable than many,’ she murmured.”

"And now there is little chance of him convincing her to leave." And Piroma would be seduced, and they would consummate their love in an overabundance of moans and tangled hair, and somehow it would not mean their destruction by a society far too strict for their tastes, but their victory over it. "I might name some who share that peculiar persistence.”

Cala raised his eyebrows. “Wouldst thou prefer that I stop? Say the word and I will never lay hand nor mouth on thee again, though darker my life would be for it. Thinkst thou that this is wrong?”

Cala knew full well the answers to those questions. "I trust that thou wilt be discreet, and all can remain as it is." But, technically, it _was_ wrong, or at least not an _encouraged_ state of affairs. But he sensed that to force themselves back to acceptable modes of behavior, even in private, would do greater harm.

Cala sighed and put a piece of scrap paper in the book to mark his place. “But thou dost not feel that it’s... right. I'm sorry. I want thee to be happy, Beshelar. And if thou feelst that thou art committing some crime, or even an almost-crime, thou wilt not be happy and instead constantly judging thyself - I _know_ thee, I know that’s true.”

Beshelar’s ears drooped. Some men he knew complained of fits of temper from their partners (though those were wives and mistresses, not... Cala), and he almost thought that would be easier than this calm sadness he could not wholly ease, not truthfully. As much as he desired for their relationship to continue as such, he could not fully chase away that sense that it was wrong, a risk, something that threatened his oath and his dignity. "It is not as simple as all that... but I know thou dost understand the risks we take. And _thou_ wouldst not be happy, wert thou to adhere to the absolute in everything." That ability to skirt close to breaking rules and come away more successful than if he had followed them - it was that aspect of Cala that had first frustrated, and then intrigued him.

“I suppose that's true.” Cala took a mouthful of tea, then removed his glasses and swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead in frustration. “Thou knowest what it is I do - I protect His Serenity's mind and spirit, but that doesn't mean I can't protect thine as well. And by that count, I practically have a duty to bend the rules to keep thee in good humour and of restful spirits, don’t I? At least, the rules matter less than thy happiness.” He sighed and pushed his hands into his hair, largely undoing most of the braid. “Ugh, I’m making no sense.”

The rules mattered a great deal - but Cala knew that. "All that we do is in his service," Beshelar said softly. "And I thank thee greatly for thy support, for his sake and my own. Do not neglect thy own peace of mind while you are tending to us." He stood then, and reached to hold Cala's shoulder, more confident in the motion than he would been several weeks ago. Cala looked despairingly up at him, then got to his feet so he could put his hands on Beshelar's waist.

“As if I did not start this thing for my own indulgence,” he said, smiling a little. He was very short-sighted but this close-up, it didn't matter that he'd left his glasses on the nightstand. “But I need to know that thou wantest it too.”

“It has done neither of us any harm," he said. "Far from it."

Cala opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and shook his head. “Beshelar, just because something does no harm isn’t enough reason why it should continue. I know how a soldier's life is, thou hast not had to make a decision of thine own since thine enrollment but I am asking it of thee now - dost thou wish to continue this?” Cala, again, managed to be utterly correct in his argument against his own desires... and yet, though they were the same protests that would have come easily to Beshelar not so long ago - he did not feel that accepting them would be the best choice.

Choice... Cala was half-right in that - he had found most of his direction in his orders, in his oaths, in the framework of duty. And he might never be content if he could not somehow fit this too into that. He did not think he could let such a contradiction stand. But he might once have called Cala, or the Emperor even, contradictions, and he could not now deny their suitability.  

"If thou wilt only be patient with me, and do not doubt that I too desire this."

Cala's smile was like dawn had broken on his face; finally he had his answer and it was the answer he wanted. “Patience to the end of the world, if thou wish it,” he said. “Many thanks for answering me.” He had the advantage on Beshelar by about half a head, so he could put a bony knuckle under Beshelar's chin and tip it up - ridiculous though it obviously was - to kiss him. Then he laughed. “Perhaps I should crouch a little, then thou can be taller and this won’t seem so strange to thee.”

"I can think of other ways to make up the difference," Beshelar said, with sudden certainty, and pushed Cala back onto the bed. Cala sat down hard, grinning, and looked up at him.

“Oh, so I see, or rather, I don't,” he said, squinting dramatically. He reached out and caught Beshelar by the belt. “Thou shouldst come closer, so I can see thee properly.”

He let himself be pulled down with Cala, smiling now, "Thou wilt do rather more than seeing, in a moment, as I know thee," he said, tugging the last dangling bits of worn ribbon from Cala's hair and brushing the twitching tips of his ears with his fingers.

“I can only hope,” replied Cala, reaching back to let down Beshelar's topknot and tease out his hair so that it hung around his face, making him look far more dishevelled than he was ever usually seen on duty - but Cala frowned for a second, then took the hand of the arm that had been injured, and pressed his lips to the palm. Beshelar leaned in to kiss an unadorned ear, and could hear Cala's sudden breath at the touch.

“Unhappy still?” he asked. “What troubles thee now?”

“Nothing.” Cala shook his head and ruffled Beshelar’s hair with his long fingers. “I merely thought that this was the most unpolished I had ever seen thee, except for the time thou wert stabbed in the arm. And still a very model soldier, then.”

“Oh.” That brought back a whole host of unwelcome mental images - how close His Serenity had come to dying, then; Cala’s greyish pallor and automaton-like manner after having to kill a man - he had found the words to tease Beshelar a little even then, as if it were in his clockwork. Beshelar took the narrow face between both hands and kissed him breathless, felt him react along his whole body, felt him _live_. When he released him Cala was panting a little, his lips pink and damp.

“Today is not for remembering that day,” he said, and drew Cala back down to the bed.


End file.
